Wherever You Are It’s Still Christmas

Early, we heard the blast of the ships call. The tugs echoed back with their welcoming toots. Australia. The other side of the world. We had arrived. What would it be, what would we experience?  
As a child, fear mingled with excitement; it was to be Christmas soon, would Santa find us?  Would it snow!  Would the new city be covered in lights? 
What of the markets and bustling crowds, would our breaths mingle with theirs in the winter’s late afternoon darkness?
We dressed quickly in our closed cabin, eager to see the city buildings thrusting high into the stars.  Christmas!
Our wide eyes drank in, what we could hardly believe, as we walked eagerly up the steps on to the ships deck. Bright blue skies sweeping above and around us, shining silver wavelets slapped against our ship’s bow as her escorts nudged her into her berth.
The huge Southampton wharf we had left was not reflected here. 
Nothing but corrugated sheds awaited our arrival at the starboard side. We spied a few uniformed officials with their clipboards mingling with gaily dressed people in summer frocks, light shirts, all in hats. 
Men and women, even the children, wore bonnets, straw sunshades or caps.  Where were the signs for telling of Christmas? Where was the holly, the mistletoe, the fir trees with flashing lights? The buildings in the city decorated for Christmas? 
There were but a few houses with maybe a couple of two storied flats. No streets full of markets bustling with trade or sounds of barter. No monuments, statues covered in centuries of grime. No history.  Hearts sank. 
This was alien to us, children of post-war London, where crowds, winter nights and places where Christmas was reflected by dark evenings, cold noses, hot chestnuts and brilliant fairy lights everywhere.  So maybe alien to Father Christmas too?
This memory of a transition in life is perhaps not seemingly a joyous Christmas tale, but with hindsight, maybe it is. The children as they all do soon began to recognize that loss of one is but a change for maybe not more or lesser joy, but joy of a different kind.   
We adapted so well that Christmas. Santa did come.  Gifts were given in so many ways over future days.
So we explored this new world with eagerness and joy.  Unwrapping each new experience with excitement and anticipation.  The bright sky filled our world with summers lasting all year.
The sun took us to explore lakes, rivers, dams and the glorious clean shades of the ocean. 
In time, many of us discovered skills we never knew before.  We found we could fish, go crabbing, cook crayfish on the barbie, and so much more. 
Flora and fauna delighted and amazed us. Sights we had never seen.  And then the new people, welcoming, friendly, open and accepting.  So willing to embrace us, so helpful in helping us to navigate our new surroundings.
Was a London Christmas not the great times we had remembered?  Was this new country such a blessed place?  Or was it that the nervously, childish hearts accept the now, familiar or not, and enjoy those wonders that delight them. 
All is new, and those who experience it, share their own joy in that memory, that reality which is and always will be the true spirit of Christmas.  
Yvonne Lambert writes from Rockingham, West Australia. She became a writer after her husband died leaving her to raise their three small sons. She is best known in Australia for her children’s books which were performed on Australian radio. In 1998 her play “Dance With a King” won her the prestigious Kuljak Award.
Loss of vision has halted her writing in recent years, but various electronic devices have enabled her to resume writing, according to Judy Lambert of Erma.